


Election Night

by BlindSwandive



Category: Colbert Report RPF, Daily Show RPF, Fake News, Fake News RPF
Genre: Angst, Election Night 2004: Prelude to a Recount, Gen, Hold me and make it go away, M/M, Marriage Protection acts, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:02:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10037420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Stephen and Jon are political junkies and hurting a lot.  Angsty vignette from the hours following the 2004 election night coverage (when "Defense of Marriage" acts passed in all 11 states proposing them, and G.W. Bush was re-elected), and a somewhat brighter epilogue from 2006, when there was a major swing in congress and, for the first time, a state rejected its proposed anti-gay-marriage ban.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this as an intense gen friendship or as slash, as you like. Feedback is love. ...Er, flaming is not, just in case that one's not obvious.

4 November 2004

The lights had gone out on them more than twenty minutes before, but they still couldn't manage to break themselves free of the inertia that was holding them, forehead to forehead, silent and drained.

The show had ended hours earlier, but it had still been too close to call for certain, so they'd retreated into Jon's office to scrape off their make-up, loosen their ties, and flip channels with increasing agitation. When the fidgeting had overwhelmed them, they'd grabbed the old plastic radio Jon kept in a drawer and headed back out onto the set, lazing around behind the curved desk with the volume low, trying to pass the time as the crew departed.

They tried to talk about the elections. When they couldn't bear it anymore, they tried to talk about anything but. A departing crew member reminded them that one of the sets of overhead lights was on a timer, so they should watch out for it if they insisted on staying, and Stephen thanked him. 

They exchanged bad jokes. They played dots.

Because the rations under the second desk had had to be camera-safe, Stephen hadn't stowed any beer, but they both regretted it. When the situation became desperate, they dug up a set of keys so that they could let themselves back into the building after a beer run. Stephen managed to find and don his socks, but elected to keep on the house slippers; they were comforting, even if he knew he'd regret them outdoors. When they went, they took the radio with them.

It didn't occur to them that they could have gone home, or even gone back to an office, and probably have been more comfortable; something propelled them back to that spot, compelled them to it, the hollow behind the desk. It looked huddled, lost in the empty studio. They both privately thought it felt a bit like being behind some kind of fort, and when they sank back behind it, setting the radio down on its surface, they lowered their chairs as far as they would fall. When Jon slouched forward, elbows to knees, his hanging head barely rose above it. Stephen's nose and knees peaked up from the awkward curl he'd achieved by slipping further and further down in his chair and pulling his legs up, crossing his ankles at the edge of the seat. They fell into a relatively uncomfortable silence.

Jon had just resolved to break it when Stephen heard "Amendment" from the radio, and stopped him mid-word, with a wave. He was intent, so Jon (equally intent on a moment of escape) went exploring, and managed to set back the timer, buying them a couple more hours with light. When he got back, Stephen was brooding over a loose button in his shirt, nursing his first beer. They'd forgotten it. Jon uncapped his own after a bit of a struggle, falling back into his chair.

"What happened?"

"'passed in another state," Stephen drawled.

". . .Fuck."

"Yeah."

"What is that, nine, now?"

". . .Ten." He'd had to count.

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

There was really nothing left to say about the "marriage protection" legislation that they hadn't already said that night, and eight times before, but they beat through it, again, halfheartedly, at Jon's frustrated behest. Stephen trailed off midway through his bit about biblical bigamy, before heaving a disgusted sigh.

After a pause, Jon smiled wryly at the ground between his feet. "Our fellow countrymen, eh?"

Stephen snorted. When he reached for a second beer, Jon was already handing it to him, but they didn't make eye contact. They drank on, a while, quiet.

Jon finally plucked at Stephen's sock like a bow string, letting it snap back against his leg. "Hey. . ."

"Hn?"

"It'll be okay, you know. Eventually."

"Jon, are you being optimistic?"

"Don't sound so insulted. . . All this shit goes away, eventually, right? Anti-miscegenation laws rolled back, mostly, and these will, too. I'm not saying things aren't all fucked up," he promised quickly, cutting off Stephen's protest. "And if things keep rolling the way they're rolling, we're probably going to have 'four more years,' and they're gonna' suck. I will cry, you know."

". . .That's more like it," Stephen muttered, but he did take a little comfort. He rubbed the fuzzy tops of his slippers together.

"They're gonna' suck," Jon repeated, shaking his head. " _But,_ " he started and ended, again, and Stephen nodded, understanding. They shared weak smiles.

"But," Stephen repeated.

And for a little while, "but" worked. They remembered how to talk, forgot to call their wives, remembered to reset the timer, ignored and remembered and ignored the radio again. But a couple of hours before dawn, when the news briefs broke through the jazz to call it a somewhat tentative victory for the incumbent and a firmer "all eleven states voted to ban. . . " Stephen deflated, disappearing behind his knees. After swatting the radio off.

". . .We going home, now?" Jon finally asked, after a heavy pause and a heavier sigh. His voice was too even.

". . .Not. . . quite yet," was the thick response.

"Okay. Okay," Jon nodded, and he folded, again, quietly laying his head forward into the space between them, pushing his palms up into his face.

Minutes passed. The quiet was oppressive, and Jon thought he could hear his heartbeat, hear his hair growing. The wet click that came out of his companion's throat was like glass breaking, through it.

Jon looked up over his fingers, tired, to try to get a glimpse of Stephen from behind his knees, and was just in time to see wet brown eyes aimed somewhere over the desk. Just in time to see Stephen's lip suck back up against his teeth as he ground them. Jon watched, then, fascinated by how smooth his friend's brow was, unknit and pushing back at his hair determinedly, how wide his eyes. It was several moments before Stephen was finally forced to take a breath, again, and it shook and halted on the way.

". . .Fuck, Stephen," Jon managed to say through a tight throat and one of those stupid smiles and choking laughs that come up on you when things are a little too harsh. "Man, I'm supposed to be the weeping pessimist, here." 

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. The thin composure cracked, and as Stephen's brow crashed, his eyes blinked out the wet they'd been damming up against his eyelashes. His face started to pull back in grimace, and Jon looked down, unfit for it. 

After a soft cough, Jon mumbled, "Hey. . . Hey, c'mere. . ." and pried Stephen's feet down from the chair, managing to tip the man towards him.

And too long ignored, the main lights embraced their own respite and went out. 

They both jumped a little, but when they settled into the dark, it was with Jon's hands on Stephen's shoulders, pulling him in, their foreheads finding one another and falling together quietly. Stephen's breathing evened out, and their arms fell down to the chairs'.

Ten minutes passed, twenty, thirty, with their hands loosely laced and still. They sank, slowly, imperceptibly, all the last scraps of energy and tension sloughing off as they managed to hang balanced on one another.

Dawn bled in cold, and they left quietly to go back to their beds.

 

***

7 November 2006

The radio had died on them more than twenty minutes before, but they still couldn't manage to break themselves free of the momentum that was holding them, forehead to forehead, silent and beaming. It was dynamic, even though they weren't moving--their bodies were humming, their heads were buzzing. The hands that were laced _gripped._

"Jon, are you being optimistic?" Stephen couldn't lift his voice above a whisper, afraid to break it.

"Don't sound so shocked. . . " Jon couldn't, either. "But, yeah, maybe. . . Maybe."

They'd been riding on the strange brink of relieved laughter and gushing sighs for ten minutes, twenty, thirty, holding in some tantric _almost._

Hope bled in bright, and they finally broke open, into laughter. Tonight, they would leave before dawn. Tonight, they would celebrate.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2006, I think, my first TDS/TCR. Mostly posting here for posterity's sake.


End file.
